Crooked Numbers (38 page)

“You think she mighta killed Dougie?”

“I don’t know. That
is
her turf.”

“What’s she got to do with Jack Quinn?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“So,” Edgar said, “according to this, he won’t be showing up tonight.”

“That’s what he says.” Then my ex-cop’s lightbulb went off. “I wonder if China knows that.”

JUST LIKE DOUGIE, I
also had a shoebox in my closet. I didn’t want anyone to know about mine, either.

I took the shoebox out of the closet and brought it over to the coffee table. I placed it down gently and removed the lid. An old T-shirt was wrapped around something I’d sometimes forget I had. I unwrapped it and picked it up. It seemed heavier than I remembered and felt awkward in my hand. I guessed that’s what happens when you don’t hold something for so many years. Like an old baseball glove or a newborn baby.

My off-duty gun.

There was no practical reason for me to still have it. I certainly hadn’t foreseen a time when I’d need it again. It was part of my past, given to me by my uncle upon my graduation from the Police Academy. Getting rid of the gun would have meant giving up a physical link to my past life. Some people hold on to pictures of ex-lovers, favorite pairs of worn-out sneakers, college drinking mugs. I held on to my old off-duty gun. Most ex-cops do.

Like many cops, my off-duty gun was a .38, snub-nosed revolver. Some cops chose an automatic, but, as Uncle Ray explained to me years ago, they can jam or misfire. Revolvers don’t. It was—big surprise—made by Smith & Wesson, was black, and held five bullets at a time, which made it easier to carry than the ones that held six.

“Black’s the color you want,” my uncle had said. “If I had my way, I wouldn’t allow any cop to carry the silver ones. All they do is give the bad guys a nice and shiny target to aim at.”

I went into my bedroom and opened up the top drawer. Behind my socks and underwear were three more mementos: a box of bullets, my ankle holster, and my speed loader. I always stored the gun in one room and the ammunition in another. It was safer that way. Too many gun owners kept their guns loaded, making them much more likely to shoot someone in their own family. I had no family to worry about, but gun safety is drilled into you as a cop. Some habits are hard to break.

I left the speed loader where it was, brought the bullets and the holster into the living room, and sat down on the couch. I opened up the gun and looked at the five empty chambers. The thought of bringing an unloaded gun with me crossed my mind, but then I remembered something else Uncle Ray used to say: “If you bring a gun into a situation, you’d better be prepared to use it.” I opened the box of bullets, took out five, and slid them into the chambers. I closed up the gun, made sure the safety was on, and placed the gun in the holster.

I rolled up my right pant leg, wrapped the holster around my ankle, and fastened it into place. I put the pant leg down and stood. I walked around the apartment as if trying on a new pair of shoes. After a few minutes, it began to feel a bit more comfortable. I kept looking down, thinking I’d see a big bulge by my ankle, but it looked normal. No one would be able to tell I was carrying. I sat on the couch again to double-check the safety. All set. Except, of course, for the fact I was no longer licensed to carry a concealed weapon. Nothing I could do about that now, other than leave the gun at home, but there was no way I was going to face China and her girls with nothing but my wit and charm. I’d tried that once and ended up with a bunch of notches on my wrist. What if they were the ones who had attacked Allison and me the other night? Who knew what they’d do when they caught me in their territory again?

But catch me I hoped they would.

*

An hour later, I was standing by a bench outside the locked tennis courts next to the office where Murcer, Allison, and I had had our talk with Terrence, the maintenance guy. During the subway ride over, I couldn’t shake the feeling my few fellow travelers on the train could tell I had a gun strapped to my ankle. When a transit cop walked through the car, it felt like the gun was burning a hole into my leg. He had walked right on past me into the next car, unaware of how fast my heart was racing.

I reached into my jacket pocket and took out my cell to check the time. It was a few minutes after one, and the cold breeze coming off the East River was starting to cut through me. I pulled my zipper up as far as it would go, readjusted my hat so it covered more of my ears, and shoved my hands deeper into my pockets. I figured I’d wait for an hour. If China didn’t show, I’d head for home and try again the next night.

A solitary tugboat made its way up the river. Traffic on the Williamsburg Bridge was predictably light for this time of night, and a subway train rattled along on its way into Brooklyn. I figured I’d hail a cab back home, since I planned on being here till at least two in the morning, and probably wouldn’t feel like walking to the subway station and waiting God knows how long for the next train.

“Yo!”

The voice came from behind me. I turned to see China and one of her girls as they walked toward me. They were also wearing winter jackets, but theirs were open, so I could see the Saints jerseys and beads underneath. Too tough to worry about the weather, neither wore a hat or gloves. China gave me a look that said she was expecting someone else. Most likely Jack Quinn.

“Whatchoo doin’ here, Mister Man?” China asked, looking around. “Thought we agreed you got no more business this side of the bridge.”

“Some other business came up,” I said. “Made me change my mind.”

“Maybe we change it back for you.” The two girls stopped about ten feet away from the fence that separated us. They smiled. “You came by at the wrong time.”

I heard something behind me and looked over my shoulder at two more of China’s girls coming around the small building. They stood with their hands in their pockets, blocking the only exit out of the fenced-in area. I faced China again.

“I just need to talk,” I said, showing my open hands.

China smiled. “Must be real important, you coming all the way out here in the freezin’ nighttime.”

She and her partner took a few more steps toward me. I heard the girls behind me move as well. I stepped on the bench with my right foot and raised the pant leg.

“This time,” I said, “I’m a bit more prepared.”

Looking at the gun around my ankle, China laughed. “Where you get that thing? Toys“R”Us?”

“Actually…” I removed the gun from its holster and held it at my side, pointing at the ground. “It’s from my old job.”

“What, you used to be five-oh, or something?” They all laughed at that.

“Yep.”

I watched as her eyes went from my gun to my face. She studied my eyes, checking for any signs of a bluff. Looked like the funny stuff was over now.

“So,” she said. “You come across the bridge to do us or something?”

“I came across the bridge,” I said, “to talk with you.” I held up the gun and then put it back to my side. “This is so I don’t get hurt.” I called over my shoulder. “Why don’t you two join your friends?”

The two girls behind me looked to China for permission. China nodded, and the girls went behind the building and reappeared on the other side of the fence.

China put her hands over her pockets. “Whatchoo wanna talk about, Mister Man? Something more ’bout that kid who got hisself killed over here?”

“That’s part of it, China. First, I’d like to know what connection you’ve got to a couple of Upper West Side kids.”

She smiled, sniffed, and ran an index finger under her nose.

“Don’t know nothing about shit like that,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. “I figured that’s what you’d say. But I’m not the cops, China, and I don’t believe you. How do you think I knew to come here tonight?” I tapped the gun against my thigh. “I bet if I went through your pockets right now, I’d find some real interesting stuff.”

She looked at her girls, then back at me.

“That why you’re here?” she said in disbelief, slapping her pockets. “You wanna rip me off for what I’m carrying?”

“Goddamn it!” I yelled. “That’s part of your problem. You don’t listen, and you assume everyone thinks like you do.” I tapped the gun against my thigh again. Harder. “I said I want to
talk
to you. If I wanted what’s in your fucking pockets, I’d have it already and be on my way home.”

“Okay,” she said. “Don’t give yourself a heart attack, Mister Man.” She paused for a bit and gestured for her girls to come closer to her. “Yeah, okay. We did some biz with these two white boys. Coupla times a week.”

“That why you’re here tonight?”

China nodded.

“You using or selling?” I asked.

“Little of both.”

“These white boys. Did you ever get their names?”

She laughed again, this time nervously. Then the laugh disappeared.

“We just called ’em Peanut and Cracker Jack. Like from the song, ‘Buy me some peanut and Cracker Jack,’ y’know?”

“Why’d you call them that?”

“Don’t know when it started,” she said, “but Peanut’s all small and shit, and Cracker Jack ’cause he’s giving us drugs, y’know? That was his real name, too. Jack.”

Paulie Sherman had come down here with Jack Quinn. The “travel buddy” Jack had mentioned in his post on Finch’s Landing. Probably didn’t want to come down here all by himself this time of night.

“What kind of drugs did Jack sell you?”

“Just some good prescription shit.”

“What kind of prescription stuff?”

She shook her head. “Don’t know the name of it, it just kept us goin’, y’know? Smoke a little weed, take some meddies. Last all night.”

I thought back to the drugs I’d taken out of Dougie’s closet.

“Were they pills?” I asked. “Or capsules?”

“What’s the fuckin’ difference?”

“A pill’s like a … like a small white M&M,” I said. “A capsule’s bigger. A lot of times they’re two different colors.”

She gave that some thought. “Pills. Yeah, they was pills.”

The ADHD meds,
I thought. They were stimulants, so it’d make sense that if you took them while smoking pot, the high would last longer, maybe be more intense.

“And we didn’t
buy
from him exactly,” she said.

“What’s that mean?”

China smiled and looked at her girls. To me, she said, “Okay if I go into my pockets, Mister Man?”

I tightened the grip on my gun. “If you do, make it slow and easy.”

She did. When her hand came out, she held a large plastic baggie of what I assumed was marijuana.

“See,” she said, “we didn’t buy those pills. We traded, ’cept he used one of them fancy white-boy words.” She searched her memory. “
Bartered,
” she finally said. “He gave us stuff he came by easy, and we gave him stuff
we
came by easy. He even asked for some beads that last time. I remember
that
.”

Now it made sense. Jack had no backup. That was why he posted he wouldn’t be able to make the trip tonight. He was letting his clients know he wouldn’t be able to provide them with any pot for a while.

“You ever see Peanut and Cracker Jack with a black kid?” I asked. “About my height? Seventeen years old?”

“The kid that got killed?”

“Yeah.”

“Nah,” China said. “Jus’ the two of them.” A thought came into her head. “
Did
see a kid on a bike, coupla weeks ago. Coulda been black. Inside the courts. He wasn’t
with them
with them, but he coulda been
waiting
for them, I guess. And there was another kid, hanging around outside the courts, smoking. Had a hoodie on. Kept moving all over the place, stomping his feet like he was all cold and shit.”

“When was this?”

“Like I said, a coupla weeks ago.”

“Maybe three Saturdays ago?”

“I don’t know, Mister Man. I don’t remember
last
Saturday.”

Of course not. With all the shit she’d been popping and smoking, I might as well have been asking about last year.

“There was one thing a bit wacked,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“Cracker Jack was real wired up that night. Like he was on some sort of shit. Most times, he’s cool like ice.”

“How’d you two arrange these meets?” I asked.

“We just hooked up every Tuesday and Saturday.”

“You call him, or did he call you?”

“No, man. Like I said, it was
every
Tuesday and
every
Saturday. Same time, right after the lights go out. Jack said no phone calls. Something about how he didn’t want no record of us meeting.”

Sharp.
Maybe he’d put his business deal with China on his college application.

“Did he show up this past Saturday?”

“Nope. Didn’t show up Tuesday, neither.”

That was the day I’d met Jack’s sister outside the hospital. He was still in the hospital Tuesday.

“Jack ever say how they got down here?”

“Nah,” she said. “Figured they rich, white boys. Probably took a cab.” She motioned with her head to the north. “Get off at that exit up there and walk on down.”

That made sense. I tried to think of some more questions, but nothing came to mind. She’d pretty much confirmed what I needed to know: Paulie and Jack were down here dealing—
bartering
—and Dougie might have come along once. Based on what China had told me about the bike and the beads, it had to be the night he was killed.

Which put Jack and Paulie at the top of the suspect list. Maybe that was why Paulie skateboarded into the bus. He couldn’t handle what he’d been a part of. But who was the mysterious kid in the courts with Dougie? Finch? Had Jack talked him into getting involved?

“How’d you hook up with Peanut and Cracker Jack to begin with?” I asked. “I don’t see you running in the same social circles.”

“We run into them on the courts one night,” China said. “They be skateboarding and smoking and shit. We was gonna take their stash and run them back home to the white folks, but then Cracker Jack come up with this idea for the trade, y’know?” She smiled and shook her head. “That is one smooth-talking white boy.”